Photo: Pallas Athena, G. Klimt,1898, Wien Museum (Vienna)
Pallas Athena by Gustav Klimt is one of my favourite paintings, so much so that I have a print of it at home. Visiting it in Vienna (it is hosted at the Wien Museum, not at the more well known Belvedere Museum) was a moving experience. Equally moving was receiving, last weekend, an award for my poem Athena.
“What if my armor breaks/ my courage fails/my beauty fades?”
Excerpt from the poem “Athena” included in the contemporary poetry collection Coffee Stains on My Books, Stefania Lucchetti, 2024
My poem Athena explores the duality between strength and vulnerability, embodied in the figure of a warrior goddess who appears invincible in the eyes of others but, deep down, fears human frailties and the passage of time. Behind her shining armor and confident stride, doubt and solitude emerge— the solitude of someone who knows they are not seen beyond their strength.
Athena has built her identity on qualities such as determination and decisiveness, admired and almost unattainable—traits that others regard with fascination, envy, fear, and sometimes even open hostility. However, this outward image is only part of the story: “This is me, this is who you see.” Beneath the weight of the armor lies a complex person, aware of her own vulnerabilities and the sacrifices she has made, and who feels irreversibly alone in them.
Solitude manifests in moments of exhaustion, when movements slow down and the mask of strength begins to crack. In the relentless burden of always having to be strong, in the unending fatigue of carrying loads and solving problems, there is a growing awareness of never being able to receive the same support in return. Athena is expected to be invincible: any sign of vulnerability is seen as a deviation from her role and risks being used against her. This leads to inevitable isolation, to an independence that becomes armor— forged by experiences that made this choice necessary.
What will happen if the armor breaks? If courage falters? If her beauty and sharp intellect begin to fade? The fear of becoming a fallen goddess, forced to watch her armor rust in a forgotten corner, is a constant shadow.
For those who love musicals (and anyone who knows me is well aware of how much this world belongs to me), a character— pop and almost comedic, but only on the surface— who perfectly embodies this condition is Luisa Madrigal from Encanto.
At first glance, Luisa is the embodiment of indestructibility: strong and tireless, she is the one everyone relies on to solve the family’s and the village’s problems. Her duty is to lift heavy loads, both literally and metaphorically, and she can never stop, never give in, never show a hint of weakness. But behind that solid exterior lies a deep fear: the terror of not being enough, of being worthless unless she is useful to others.
In the song Surface Pressure, one of my favorite Disney tracks, Luisa confesses:
“No cracks, no breaks, no mistakes.
I’m pretty sure I’m worthless if I can’t be of service.”
Fragility is often denied to those who are seen as pillars, yet it is precisely behind that armor that a complex humanity is hidden.
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